Slave Verse 1: Sylar buys a memory wiped Peter
by Gamebird
Summary: In an Alternate Future, people with abilities have their memories wiped, their abiltiies neutralized and are enslaved. Sylar has escaped this. Peter did not. When Sylar hears Peter is up for sale, he gets to him before Nathan does.
1. Sylar buys a memory wiped Peter

**A/N:**** This first chapter, gorgeous and sensual and lovely as it is, was not written by myself. It was penned by Trekker47 (47_trek_47 on LJ) in response to a LiveJournal Heroes Kink Meme contest and published anonymously on 10/18/2008. It had pretty much the same title it has here. As you'll see at the end of this chapter, it stops at an odd place, leaving the reader just begging for what happens next. Given that years had passed and others had also begged for a sequel and not received one, I did what any fervent fanficker should do and I wrote one myself. Then I contacted the author and received her kind and generous permission to reprint her work with attribution and follow it with my own. So. You will see an obvious difference in writing style and I don't claim to know the author's original intent. Mine is only a possibility. There are six chapters, approximately 15,000 words.**

**Setting:**** This is an AU which has no relation (none at all!) to my usual work. It is roughly the Exposed Future, in that abilities are known to all, but those with abilities are also horrifically persecuted. That has bled over to create a general persecution of anyone who is "different". It has created a cultural shift and re-introduced human slavery into any society sophisticated enough to manage the infrastructure for it.**

**Warnings and Notes:**** Explicit sexual content, light bondage, non-explicit torture, Slave!Peter, Mostly Evil!Sylar, Morally Ambiguous!Peter, Passive Aggressive!Peter, Almost Certainly Evil!Nathan (background character), reference to past child molestation, non-con sex (well, he's a slave… non-con is kind of assumed), occasional bad language, adult themes, cuddling, the death of Danko. More on the dark side than not. Ends well.**

Ever since he'd heard they'd caught Peter, Sylar had been hunting through the slave markets.

Peter, of course, was never supposed to have been sold into the open market, but by some paperwork mix-up, he had been auctioned off in an anonymous lot of a thousand to a wholesaler.

Most of the lot had gone to distributors. A few of them, though, had been purchased by private dealers. One of those dealers was at this market today.

Most of the crowd was here looking for slaves in the more traditional sense. Factory owners, municipal garbage companies, people looking for maids, gardeners, sometimes even nannies. The slaves propped up the bottom rung of the economy nicely, and cheaply. But, once you passed through the large holding cages in the front, where slaves were being sold en mass to the factories, and then past the area beyond that were the slaves who were considered docile enough for household service sat placidly under tents, rarely restrained by anything more than the dealer's dirty looks, you reached the area in the back where the "companion" slaves were caged.

And that was where the dealer he was looking for today was located.

It didn't worry Sylar that if they could catch someone as powerful as Peter, they could possibly catch him. Peter was weak, and he trusted too easily. One of his friends had probably turned him in for the reward and he'd no doubt gone along like a dimwitted puppy. Sylar knew better than that, and in any case, ever since he'd teased the secrets of telepathy out of that cop's brain, he'd been able to tell anyone anything he wanted. Just like Luke Skywalker.

Sylar smiled slyly. He liked that. As he walked up to the cage of the dealer he'd been looking for, he introduced himself as "Lucas," and put on a soft, farm boy drawl. "I'm looking for a male. A brunette," he said. "White. Youngish. No more than thirty. And he has to be pretty."

"I've got one," the guy said. "But he's a strong guy. Beat the hell out of another one of 'em when he caught him fucking around with one of the girls."

Hmm. That could be Peter. Depending on if the fucking around was consensual or not. "I'm interested," Sylar said.

The dealer went to unlock the main, chain link door of his enclosure, beside which there was a laminated page listing all the STDs his slaves were tested and negative for. Sylar leaned in, trying to catch a peek down the narrow aisle between the cages as the man went back to retrieve the one he was talking about.

The dealer banged on one of the doors and snapped, "Back up, you. Turn around, hands behind your head," before taking out his keys and unlocking the padlock. He grabbed the slave's remote from where it was hooked to the chain link as he went inside.

_Oh, yes._ Sylar smiled as the pair emerged.

He'd heard rumors of the President's personal security team scouring the area markets.

But he was too late. Sylar had found Peter first.

He was naked but for a tight, black jockstrap that really hid nothing, and his muscles gleamed with oil. He stopped just outside the enclosure and stood with his feet spread wide, his chin up, and his eyes blazing with defiance. Not a hint of recognition, though. That wasn't surprising; almost all of the slaves had their memories wiped at the same time they were sterilized and the implant that suppressed their powers was installed.

The dealer went on to Sylar and handed him the remote that controlled Peter's implant. "He's a bit feisty," he said. "If you two want to get to know each other, there's a space around back."

"Thanks," Sylar said, then gestured with the remote, looking at Peter. "Shall we?"

Sylar saw a muscle jump in Peter's clenched jaw, but he did as asked.

Around back was an area closed off with cubicle paneling, with a folding chair and a bench inside. On the wall was a basket holding a grungy tube of lubricant, a box of vinyl gloves, and a bottle of waterless hand sanitizer. A printed sign was pinned next to the basket, saying "No exchange of bodily fluids!" and, beneath that, in smaller letters, "Smile! You are being filmed!"

One glance at the security camera confirmed Sylar's suspicion that it was fake, but it was irrelevant, anyway.

Peter had turned around and was fixing him with that tense, defiant stare again.

"You _are_ a pretty one," Sylar said, stepping closer. "And so _fierce_. I like that. I'm gonna enjoy ripping that fight out of you."

"You don't scare me," Peter said.

Sylar sniffed, amused, and said, "Not yet."

He took a moment to just look Peter over, top to bottom, not hiding at all where his eyes lingered. Once he'd finished his perusal, he said, "I think I'll call you Peter."

"_Peter_?" Peter said. "Why not just go one step further and call me 'Penis?' Or 'Asshole,' given I'm sure that's all I'll be to you, anyway."

Sylar smiled pleasantly. "Oh, thanks for reminding me. I wanted to see that. Bend over and show me."

Peter just crossed his arms. "And if I don't?"

Sylar silently raised his hand holding the remote. It was a small, black device, about an inch square, that sort of resembled an iPod shuffle. It had a plastic thumb wheel that turned between one and ten, with a red button in the center and a small switch in the upper right hand corner. The numbers represented varying levels of painful feedback, transmitted straight into the slave's brain by the implant at the back of their neck. 1 was not much sharper than a static shock.

10 was literally unbearable, incapacitating, whole-body pain. In Sylar's slave-holder licensing course, the instructor had said that it was a given that any slave subjected to it would experience some degree of post-traumatic stress syndrome, most likely for the rest of their lives. The instructor, something of a humanitarian in Sylar's opinion, had told them no one should really ever encounter a situation severe enough to call for flipping the safety switch that unlocked levels 8 through 10. Dealers were required to disclose if a slave had ever been exposed to the highest level.

Peter just snorted, unimpressed.

Sylar flipped the safety switch to "off" and twisted the dial up to 10 with an easy slide of his thumb.

By the way Peter went instantly pale, Sylar knew that-disclosure from the unscrupulous dealer or not-Peter clearly knew exactly and viscerally what that number meant.

Without even being asked again, Peter turned around, pulled the strap of the jockstrap down under his ass cheeks and bent forward, spreading himself open with his hands.

"Very nice," Sylar drawled. He grabbed the lube from the basket-ignoring the gloves-and dripped some on his fingers. "Are you clean, pet?"

"Of course I am," Peter huffed. "That jerk didn't feed us since yesterday morning."

"Tsk," Sylar said, turning the dial down to 6 with his thumb and pressing the button. Peter cried out at the unexpected pain. "You will answer me with yes or no, and you will address me as 'sir' or 'master.' Understood?"

"Yes, _master_," Peter said, his voice utterly dripping with sarcasm.

"Very good, pet," Sylar said, lightly. "We'll work on tone later." Then he pushed two slick fingers into Peter's ass.

Peter hissed at the intrusion, but otherwise didn't react. His ass was tight around Sylar's knuckles. "Tense, pet?" Sylar asked.

"Fuck you," Peter said.

"Ah ah." Sylar hit the button again, feeling Peter's ass spasm around his fingers as Peter grunted in pain. "Try again."

"_Yes_, Master." His tone still said _fuck you_.

"Good boy." Sylar pushed in a little deeper, then began to slowly finger-fuck him, in and out, in and out. Slow, hypnotic strokes.

"Am I your first?" he said, conversationally.

"No, master, I'm sure you're not," Peter snapped.

Sylar let the additional commentary slide. "Am I your first that you _remember_?"

A pause.

"Answer me, pet," Sylar said, gently, pushing his fingers in deep and twisting them, sliding his fingertips across the slick, giving walls of Peter's insides.

He heard Peter's voice crack, just slightly, as he said, "Yes, sir."

"Then I am your first. This is _special_. You'll remember _this_ for the rest of your life."

Sylar let his fingers slide out. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped them clean, then said, "Stand up. Dress yourself."

Peter took a moment to comply. Then he stood and turned, pulling the jockstrap back into place. His eyes were less sure and his gaze wavered.

Sylar smiled and reached out, tilting his chin up with the hand he'd fucked him with. "You're not sure whether you're relieved or disappointed."

"No, sir." Peter said. He was not agreeing with Sylar; he was denying it.

Sylar slapped his cheek lightly. "I didn't ask you a question, pet."

He felt Peter's teeth grinding, a subtle vibration through his jaw line, but Peter didn't speak.

"I'm going to take you home," Sylar said. "And I'm going to fuck you, and hurt you. I'm going to chain you up, naked, with no food and no water, unless you take it from my mouth, like a kiss. And when your spirit finally breaks, and you're irrevocably mine, I'm going to fix this thing," he reached around and tapped his finger against the implant - no more complicated than a German watch - "and then take a look inside your head. Figure out that magical power of yours. And after that... you and I, pet, we'll rule this sorry world."

The dealer was waiting for them outside.

Sylar smiled and said, "I'll take him."


	2. Warming Him Up

**A/N: The remaining chapters of this story were written by myself. Please remember to review early and review often!**

Sylar took only a moment to enforce his will on the dealer. He had no intention of leaving a paper trail the president's men could follow, so he pushed the thought that they'd already finished the transaction and the paperwork had been filed properly.

Peter had followed him out of the cubicle after a slight delay. Now he said to him curtly, "Come," and walked towards the exit. Peter followed him at first, then lagged a bit and finally stopped. Sylar took several more steps before realizing his pet had strayed off his leash already. He turned slowly, eyes smoldering at the defiance.

Peter was looking back after the dealer, who was walking away. The lanky young man looked back to Sylar, worried, then back to the dealer. Sylar sighed - this wasn't defiance, which made it less potentially pleasurable to punish him for it. He could see what Peter would be confused about. The dealer owned him and he was supposed to do as he said, but Sylar was clearly leaving with him and just as clearly hadn't actually bought him. So what was a good slave to do?

"Come with me, pet," Sylar said clearly, his voice carrying. He had abilities that could compel obedience, but he preferred to just use his voice on this one. Peter took one step towards him and shot a last look in the dealer's direction, who had by now entirely disappeared back into the hall that led to his office. Abandoned by the dealer, Peter seemed to come to a decision and turned to follow Sylar.

Sylar immediately wheeled and strode off, gratified to hear Peter jog for a while to catch up with his long strides. He shoved open the door to the outside and made no attempt to hold it open for his new acquisition. He headed for the curb and the vehicles that waited there for emerging customers like himself.

Again, Peter lagged. And this was understandable too, as the sudden noise and bustle of the outside world was often overwhelming to recent victims of deep memory erasure. They had no context to understand it and everything was new. Their reactions could range from fear and panic to fascination and awe. Peter merely looked bewildered and lost to be outside of the comfortingly familiar environment of the slave market. It was the only world he knew, even if that memory only extended a few days into the past.

Sylar felt he'd been patient enough already. He hit the remote, which was still set at 6 and was pleased to hear Peter yelp and then trot after him. Sylar flagged down a vehicle and climbed in the back seat. Peter hesitated at the door. Sylar's thumb hovered over the button, but Peter was getting in before he had pressed it, so he held off. Peter gave him a dirty look, but it wasn't much, as dirty looks went, and Sylar was more amused by it than offended.

Sylar gave directions to the driver and closed the partition between the passenger compartment and the driver. He turned to Peter, intending to address him, but Peter had his back to him entirely, face plastered to the glass, staring at the world outside like he could devour it with his eyes. Sylar dialed the remote back down to 4 and hit it for a second.

Peter jumped and whipped around, eyes darting. He looked between Sylar's face and the remote, then around the compartment, then back to the remote and up to Sylar. His eyes narrowed as he failed to process what he'd done to warrant punishment.

Sylar said, "I want you to pay attention to _**me**_. I am the most important thing in your world, pet."

Peter's eyes narrowed further and he smirked. His face said, _Yeah, right_. Then he let his eyes travel down Sylar's body as possessively and lecherously as Sylar's had Peter's own only a few minutes before. It wasn't a look Sylar wanted on his slave's face. He dialed the remote to 8. Peter looked at that, but didn't react with the same alacrity that he had before. He was beginning to doubt Sylar would hit him with anything that high.

This was as good a time as any to dispel that doubt. Sylar hit the button. Peter threw his head back and cried out, thrashing in the small compartment and kicking the back of the driver's seat several times in his convulsion. The vehicle swerved a little. "What the hell are you doing back there?" the driver yelled.

Sylar left the implant buzzing away in Peter's head while he convinced the driver to mind his own business. Then he lifted his thumb and was pleased to hear Peter's shaky, shuddering breaths fill the otherwise silent compartment. Sylar reached out and lifted his chin. Peter didn't resist. His eyes were dull. Sylar told him, "Do you remember what I told you to do?"

Peter's eyes widened as he tried to figure out which command Sylar meant. He nodded uncertainly.

"Good boy," Sylar said. He released him and looked out the window as if disinterested. Peter sat up slowly and watched Sylar continually, and even if his eyes were sliding out of a focus a little by the time they arrived at their destination, he was at least still paying attention.

Sylar paid the man and they debarked inside the secure underground drop off area. Another round of presenting credentials was required at the elevators – they'd needed the first for the taxi to get into the drop off area in the first place. Peter's eyes were back to darting around everywhere, even at something as mundane as a parking garage.

The elevator doors opened and Sylar stepped inside. Peter didn't join him right away, although he glanced inside. Sylar had stepped into a funny-looking closet. There was no need to follow him in there. He jumped slightly at the departure of a vehicle belonging to some other resident of the exclusive, high-security apartments Sylar called home. He turned to watch it zoom away.

Sylar grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him into the elevator with him. Peter yelped again and flailed, off balance. Sylar tossed him in the corner where Peter stumbled and caught himself on the hand bar. The door shut and, as Sylar's authorization had been processed before the elevator ever opened, it immediately whisked them to the right floor.

At the sensation of falling, Peter bolted to his feet and looked around in wonder, as if expecting something. He looked so intently at Sylar that the taller man felt a little creeped out. The feeling strengthened when Peter stepped closer to him and reached out to touch him. He looked at the touch and Peter looked from it to Sylar's face, looking for something. They arrived with a sudden deceleration. Peter smiled, pinching and almost tugging at Sylar's sleeve. Sylar shook him off and walked onto his floor. Peter followed.

Sylar had the entire penthouse level to himself, an extravagance that put him on certain people's radar, but those people had the sense to mind their own business as long as Sylar wasn't disrupting their plans. Generally there was enough to do in the wide world for Sylar to stay away from their little portion of it.

Just inside the door, Sylar picked up a gun-like device. Peter reacted to that. He knew the shape and when Sylar started to walk behind him with it, he wheeled to face him. Sylar grabbed his shoulder and shoved him at the wall. Peter caught himself against it and Sylar put his right hand in the center of Peter's back, holding pressure on him. "Stay," he said. He applied the gun and pulled the trigger.

"Ow!" Peter barked at the sharp pain. He tried to twist away and Sylar let him, reaching into his pocket for the remote. Peter was trying to reach the spot where Sylar had inserted a subdermal tracking and identification device. His fingers came back with a small spot of blood – nothing serious – but before he could ask about it Sylar had pressed the button. Peter's legs folded under him and he went down, cracking his head hard on the marble tiled floor.

Sylar let up immediately and pushed Peter aside with his foot. He knelt and ran his fingers across the wounded tile. It was cracked, which really hacked him off. He looked at the remote, which was still set on 8. He looked at Peter, who was still on the floor, eyes flying between the tile, the remote, and Sylar's face. He looked angry, yet afraid. Sylar liked that look on him. Peter was beginning to fear him. Good. After a suitably threatening, pregnant pause, he dialed the remote back to 6. He hadn't meant to use that high a setting again anyway. He put it away without using it.

"Get up and avoid breaking any more of my things."

Peter hastened to obey, but he still glared at him. Sylar turned to face down that look and Peter snapped his eyes downward immediately. His expression didn't otherwise change. Sylar smiled. This was going to be fun.

He led him in the bathroom and pointed at the shower. "Undress. Clean yourself. Thoroughly." Sylar went over to the vanity and pulled out the chair there, sitting on it and propping up one foot on the side of the Jacuzzi. He put the remote on his thigh.

Peter was looking around the bathroom much like he had at the parking garage. He jumped at the mirror, catching sight of himself in it. He walked towards it slowly. As interesting as the self-discovery might have been, Sylar was not a patient man. However, he could understand Peter's confusion, at least intellectually even if he had no similar personal experience. He dialed the remote down to 2 and pressed it.

Peter jumped – again – Sylar loved watching him do that – and went over to the little room Sylar had pointed at. He went inside and started to shut the door.

"Leave that open."

Peter did, looking around the semi-enclosed space. Sylar waited, his finger hovering over the button. But Peter remembered what he'd been told to do. He took off his jockstrap and held it, looking around some more. Finally he dropped it on the built-in seat. He seemed to realize the shower wasn't going to turn on by itself and he examined the controls for it. He fiddled with them fruitlessly. He pulled on the handle-shaped knob. He twisted. He pulled and twisted. He looked around for different controls.

Sylar heaved a sigh and got up. Shocking him again wasn't going to help with this, so he walked over, reached in and turned on the shower for him, pressing the knob and turning. The sudden jet of water was a surprise and Sylar smirked. It was almost worth it, though he'd have rather enjoyed that little jump from the comfort of his chair. He sat back down and put both feet up now.

Peter stood in the water for a little bit apparently doing nothing. Sylar realized he was drinking it. His lips thinned. He'd intended to be able to hold water, in addition to food, out of Peter's reach unless he abased himself. But Sylar hadn't really thought about the shower and Peter probably hadn't either – at least not in the context of thwarting him. All Sylar had considered was that Peter smelled like a slave stable and there was no telling who had handled him since the last time the dealer had him washed.

Peter took down a bottle from the caddy in the corner and examined it. Sylar sat up a little, paying attention because this was important. He hadn't intended this either, but it was something he needed to know. Peter examined the bottle of conditioner. He appeared to read the label. He put it aside and took down the next bottle, of body wash. He seemed to read that label too and it too was put aside. The last bottle, of shampoo, he opened, dispensed some, and applied it correctly to his hair.

Sylar leaned back and let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Peter could still read, and he understood the contextual meaning of the words. You could never tell with deep memory erasure. To take out every meaningful memory sometimes stripped out basic life skills as well. In severe cases it took out language. These could all be relearned, but it was tedious and took months. Sylar had been worried after he couldn't figure out the shower, or, apparently, the elevator, but at least he was still literate.

He washed his hair, used conditioner and then body wash, all appropriately. And he washed thoroughly, though he turned himself away from Sylar when he did his crotch. Sylar rolled his eyes. He was going to be fucking the man within a half hour and they both knew it. This was hardly the time to be shy. But he didn't order him not to turn away. Let Peter had some shred of modesty. He'd rip that out of him along with everything else.

Peter took a few last drinks of shower water and rinsed his mouth. He glanced between the controls and Sylar a couple times. Sylar didn't move, so Peter puzzled over the knob a bit and figured out how to turn it off on his own. He stood there dripping, then leaned out of the shower looking around for a towel. Sylar telekinetically threw him one.

"Thanks," Peter said automatically, the first articulate thing he'd said since the exchange in the cubicle. Sylar took in a deep breath and considered his options. He decided on the side of pain and dialed the button up to 6 and hit it. Peter jerked, slipped on the wet floor and barely managed to grab the shower frame to avoid going down. "What the hell?" he said as soon as the pain stopped. Sylar rolled his eyes and hit it again, this time holding the button down for several seconds instead of only one.

Peter was silent when it stopped, his knuckles white where he gripped the shower frame. He looked between the towel, the shower, Sylar, the remote, the floor and himself. He held himself tensely, every muscle knotted. His hands shook a little. After several beats, he began to slowly towel himself off, staring straight at Sylar. It wasn't defiant – just hyper-alert. Sylar rolled his eyes again and Peter clenched more, if that was even possible, bracing himself for the inevitable.

"Sir, or master," Sylar ground out. "When you address me, you will say sir or master. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir." Peter relaxed, the knowledge of why he'd been punished taking away his fear. He let out his breath and shot Sylar a sullen look. Sylar zapped him for a fraction of a second for that, but did no more. Peter jerked and looked away from him, then turned his back on him and finished drying off.

When it seemed he was taking rather longer at it than he needed to, Sylar yanked the towel away with telekinesis, hanging it up. "Come here." He put his feet on the floor and sat up. "Put your foot here." He indicated the side of the Jacuzzi. When Peter went to comply he slapped his shin. "Other foot."

Peter made a noise in his throat like he very nearly spoke, then swallowed it and put his other foot up. Sylar looked at him and said, "Come closer. Do it again." He pointed at exactly where he wanted Peter's foot. Peter did it, although it put his groin within easy reach of Sylar. His knee brushed Sylar's.

Sylar bent forward and took hold of Peter's scrotum. It was shaved and still carried greenish bruising from the vasectomy. Peter tensed and said nothing. He looked away. Sylar tugged it to one side and then the other, examining the incisions. "You've been cleared for sex?"

"Yes sir," Peter said in a voice that was almost lifeless. Sylar brushed his hand over Peter's penis. The darker haired man's eyelids fluttered and he turned his face further away, swallowing hard. Sylar opened his slacks and pulled himself out. Peter glanced over discreetly at the motion, then looked away again.

"Get me hard."

Peter looked back at him, narrowed his eyes and looked between Sylar and his dick. Sylar took the remote into his hand. "Yes sir," Peter said in the same dull voice. He went to his knees on the hard tile and reached out to take hold of him. Sylar batted his hand away.

"Use your mouth."

"Yes sir."

Sylar grabbed his hair, jerking his face up. Peter grunted and glared at him, before remembering himself and jerking his eyes down. He didn't look happy about where that put his gaze. Sylar told him, "I don't want to hear anything from you unless I'm asking you a question." He didn't bother to tell him not to bite him. It would hurt, but he could regenerate and it would be fun taking revenge on him for the attack, if it came. He also wanted to know if there would _be_ an attack. Peter had been defiant thus far, but not violent. He let him go and spread his knees a little more.

Peter swallowed and leaned in, taking Sylar's half-hard cock into his mouth. He sucked it in with short moments of suction, swirling his tongue under it and pulling it in. Sylar grunted. Peter knew how to do this too. He wondered how complete Peter's memories were of his lovers – attachments, relationships and locations were the primary things they tried to erase out of a slave's mind.

He'd said he couldn't remember anyone before… but obviously he could remember _something_. He bobbed his head up and down, using his lips to advantage, dragging the ridge of the glans with his teeth in an intentional motion that was followed by rapid licking and twisting his head over the tip.

Sylar groaned. He was good. Damn good. Peter did something with his throat and angled his head down, taking him deep, his throat spasming around the head of Sylar's cock. It wasn't just a momentary thing either. It went on second after second until Sylar though he would come from that alone. "Ah!" Sylar panted and pushed Peter away. Peter blinked up at him, a hanging thread of saliva still connecting his mouth to Sylar's organ.

"I'm hard. That's enough." Sylar breathed hard and eyed Peter suspiciously. He stood up and phased out of his clothes. The expression on Peter's face told him his suspicion was right – he'd been trying to avoid sex by getting him off with his mouth – an interesting tactic, but a failed one.


	3. Breaking Him In

Sylar picked up the remote, grabbed Peter by the hair again and pulled him along with him into the bedroom. He shoved him at the end of the bed. Sylar said, "Hands on the footboard. Here, and here. Ass up." Peter gave him a long glare, chest heaving. Sylar drew himself up and smiled, waiting for the attack to come, but it didn't happen. Peter looked slowly around the room, then turned to the bed and put his hands where directed. He hung his head, still breathing hard, the muscles of his back standing out sharply with tension.

Sylar felt an odd emotion at that: disappointment.

Annoyed, he put himself to the right spot on Peter's rear end, giving him no preparation at all. If he wasn't going to get to hit him, then he'd at least make the process as painful as possible. He shoved against him and Peter grunted, a sudden, surprised sound. Sylar adjusted himself and tried again. Still no luck. He stepped back, dialed the remote to 7 and hit it.

Peter's knees buckled, but he hung onto the footboard, knowing why, at least, this was happening to him. When it was done, he labored back to his feet and resumed the position without a word or a look. Sylar felt that strange twist of emotion again, that the leading light of those with abilities wasn't even going to throw a single blow in his own defense. Of course Peter didn't know who he was and he couldn't do the things he could once do, but it bothered Sylar to see it. It offended his sense that those with abilities, and a lot of them, were inherently better than the rest of the herd.

Sylar tried again. Peter made a stifled cry as he pushed into him maybe a half inch, spreading him without actually getting anywhere. "Relax yourself," Sylar growled. "I know you know how to do it. You're only making it harder on yourself, pet."

Peter gave a tiny shake of his head, but the intent of the motion was indecipherable and Sylar didn't care anyway. He was getting pissed off. He'd be damned if he was going to use lube on him and make it pleasant. He shoved into him harder and Peter made another muffled noise, apparently biting his lip. Sylar liked that sound. He pushed at him several more times, but the noises diminished and he wasn't making progress.

Frustrated, he balled his fist and hit Peter in the back, above the kidney, as hard as he could. It knocked him to the floor with another startled cry and the look Peter gave him from the floor was pure rage. Sylar toggled the remote until he was well sure that look was gone. When he was done, Peter sobbed shuddering breaths against the floor, fingers clutching at the thick carpeting spasmodically. Sylar kicked him in the thigh. "Get up. Open yourself."

Peter struggled to his feet to comply. Sylar spat on his cock, hoping that would be enough, but not too much. He took both sides of Peter's ass and spread him until the skin was stretched tight and shiny. He pressed himself in him and for a few moments it looked like it was going to work. He could feel the tight ring of muscle trying to bar his entry. Peter had been tight for fingers when he was basically relaxed. Now he apparently _couldn't_ relax, or at least Sylar had finally decided this wasn't voluntary refusal to perform. He threw the remote on the bed so he had both hands entirely free. He put force into it, tearing into him.

Peter's noises went from pained to agonized on Sylar's third and most productive thrust, getting half of himself into the other man. Peter rose up on his tip toes and lurched forward, trying to escape him. Sylar had hold of his hips and pulled him back. For a moment they struggled then Peter gasped suddenly and hissed, "Please! Please… master. No… it… Sir…" He was pleading. Sylar stopped in surprise at that and for a moment Peter just shivered in place, barely vocalizing a faint whine of pain.

Sylar's cock was hot and wet. He looked down to see dark blood welling slowly around it and he jerked back, releasing Peter, who whimpered and cried out, clenching his cheeks together. For a moment Sylar though the man must have secreted something sharp in his rectum, but then he realized his penis was uninjured. Blood was beginning to flow down Peter's leg towards the carpet.

"Shit!" Sylar exclaimed, alarmed now. He grabbed him and pulled him back into the bathroom, on the tile. He shoved him into the shower stall, where Peter leaned against the wall, face to it, still clenched. Sylar went back to see if his carpet was clean. Several drops had been lost on the fibers. He wet a cloth and blotted them out meticulously after cleaning himself off. Once that was taken care of, he looked in the shower at Peter, who had by now turned around and was watching him.

"Your carpet's more important than I am," Peter said flatly. "So is the tile."

Sylar sighed and put his hand out, calling the remote to himself from where he'd tossed it on the bed. He used it until Peter had fallen to the floor of the shower, hands clutching uselessly at his head. Then Sylar reached in and turned the water on. He tossed the same cloth he'd used on the floor over onto the seat next to Peter's jock strap. "Rinse off, then use that to stop the bleeding."

He looked down at his dick. This was _not_ a turn-on and his male parts agreed. Had Peter struggled or fought, it would have been exciting, but that wasn't what he was getting. What he was getting was the feeling he was kicking a puppy.

Sylar was comfortable with blood with his sex, but Peter didn't have regeneration (yet… he'd get it back after he removed the suppressor, but that wasn't safe to do at the moment) and he intended to use him more than once. He wanted to use him over and over, because the ultimate stroke for the ultimate man would be to have someone of Peter's reputation and abilities bending over for him on command. He wanted to make Peter _his_ and just like he valued his tile and his carpet, he would at some point value Peter. He didn't yet, but he would eventually, once he had Peter nicely broken in. In the meantime, he had to survive to that point.

Sylar shook his head in exasperation. So much for a "_special_" first time and he really had no one to blame except himself. Yeah, sure, he could blame Peter, but he knew that was stupid. He went back in and turned off the shower. He pointed at the cloth, which was to this point untouched. Peter scooped it up immediately, giving Sylar a look of contrition for not having used it earlier.

Sylar cocked his head at that and reached in to take Peter's chin. He rubbed his thumb along his jaw and noticed Peter lean into his hand, breathing harder, his eyes sorrowful and fixed on his. It was not a look of defiance. It was a look that asked for compassion. Sylar moved his hand and stroked his cheek, feeling the rough stubble under his fingertips. Peter took a half step closer, practically begging for affection without saying a word, without changing expression. Sylar gave his cheek a few more quick strokes and a small slap. He walked out, as confused by Peter's response as he was by his own.

He'd just meant to see how much fight the man still had in him. The begging did not mean he was broken, Sylar was sure. Perhaps he was just trying to ingratiate himself. Sylar shook his head. Peter wouldn't do that. The Peter he'd known and heard so much about wouldn't do that – memory wipe or not. But what he might do was try to find affection even in the hand that struck him, with no expectation that it would change things – only that in that one small moment, it felt good and it was kind.

_Well, fine!_, Sylar thought as he stomped off to the kitchen. It still didn't explain to himself why he'd played along and stroked him. He got out some food and a cup of milk. He went back. He remained naked.

"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning, pet?"

"No, sir." Peter was leaning against the far wall of the shower, the rag stuffed between his cheeks, facing him. He sounded subdued.

Sylar toweled off the shower seat and sat. Next to him he put down a saucer that held two slices of bread and a slice of cheese. He held the cup in his hand and waited to see if Peter remembered what he'd said no more than an hour ago, about how he'd get fed.

From Peter's sour expression, obviously he did. He looked around the shower and then out the door, sighing. Sylar took a drink of the milk, giving himself a milk moustache and swallowing loudly. The liquid was the most expendable, anyway. Peter rolled his eyes slightly and reached out for the handle built into the side of the shower. He lowered himself awkwardly and walked forward slowly on his knees. He raised his hands to touch Sylar's knees, but looked up as if for permission first. Sylar didn't give it. He just spread his legs.

Peter put his hands down and stepped forward a little more. He looked up and opened his mouth to ask something, then shut it, thinking. Sylar waited to see what he would do, given he'd been told to say nothing except 'yes, no, sir or master' and only speak in response to questions. Peter's face hardened and became resolute. He brought his hands back up and carefully put them on Sylar's thighs. They shook just a little and that tiny tremor made Sylar's cock lurch.

After several seconds, it became clear Peter wasn't going to be punished just for touching him. He leaned up towards Sylar's mouth and gently, ever so gently, kissed him. Sylar had expected him to try to lick the milk off his upper lip or something similar, but Peter made no attempt at that. He just pressed his lips to his, head slightly turned. Sylar's cock twitched again and while he had understood the first response – it was power; Peter's fear and hesitancy turned him on – he didn't get the second one. Maybe it was still just the power trip, he told himself.

He didn't kiss back and Peter began to work his mouth, opening and closing lightly, trying different pressures – barely brushing so lightly it tickled to pressing so hard Sylar had to press back or be moved. Finally he touched Sylar with his tongue and Sylar felt another jolt to his sex. The killer pulled his head away, swallowing. He looked back at Peter with his eyes narrowed, oddly suspicious of the darker haired man. Peter, for his part, just returned his gaze evenly and without fear, as if this at least was an element he was comfortable in.

Well, if he could be comfortable, then so could Sylar. He pinched off a bit of bread and held it in his mouth, turning it on his tongue and making a show of it. The very corner of Peter's mouth twitched and for a moment Sylar felt a hot surge of anger at him for being mocked. But before he could act on it, Peter was leaning forward and made a small sound that quelled the anger instantly. Peter kissed at his lips and ran his tongue along the outside of Sylar's lower lip, not trespassing on his mouth itself. After several repetitions, Sylar finally deigned to give him that morsel.

He leaned forward into Peter's mouth, putting a hand on his shoulder to keep him from getting away. Along with the bread came his tongue, plunging into Peter's mouth and claiming it as his. Peter tasted vaguely stale from the beginnings of starvation and probably poor oral hygiene for the last week or so of his life. Sylar was glad he hadn't interfered with him drinking water and rinsing his mouth earlier. His cock jumped again as Peter's tongue swept deliberately over his own. He reached down and took one of Peter's hands and put it on his shaft as he pulled back from the kiss, leaving Peter to swallow his prize.

He tore off another piece and repeated as Peter pumped him slowly and steadily. It occurred to him that this was not working out as he'd planned either. He'd expected to have Peter humiliated and ashamed, not owning the moment and licking him like it was the ultimate foreplay. But to hell with it, he had an erection and this was making him horny as hell anyway. Compared to Sylar's usual rough, ultraviolent sex where his partner might not even survive (hence the attraction of someone like Peter, with regeneration, who would), this was positively kinky. He was really stepping outside of his box here. It was just amusing to be doing it for _Peter_. Or rather, _with_ Peter, he thought, correcting his faulty thinking.

It was amusing and somehow almost adorable. He took a drink of milk and Peter licked every drop from the outside of his mouth, then sucked eagerly at his lips for more. Sylar gave it to him in dribbles. He missed some, but Peter didn't seem to care. The drops spattered across Sylar's cock and every droplet made him surge against Peter's hand. He quickly found he wished he hadn't taken that first big drink, or that he'd brought a bigger glass. But he'd finished what he had and he didn't want to move back to the bread. He put his fist into Peter's hair and shoved him down at his cock.

"Suck me," he ordered.

Peter responded by glancing up at him and flashing him a grin. It was so incongruous, like this was a game to him. Sylar tightened his fist and shoved him back down, his cock throbbing. He knew Peter had to be able to sense it, to feel how his actions were affecting Sylar, how hot it was making him. He sucked him as expertly as he had before, humming now and then. He did a very convincing job of seeming enthusiastic about it.

Sylar threw his head back against the wall, his fingertips pressing into Peter's shoulders as he received what had to be the best blow job he'd ever had. His only regret was that he came so quickly. Peter showed no reticence even then, sucking him down and swallowing every drop until Sylar ended his avidity by pushing him away. Then he leaned back again and panted, coming down from that incredible high.

He looked down. Peter was staring fixedly at the bread and cheese that was left. Sylar smirked. Yes, he was waiting for his payment. _Whore_. Oh well. He would have to learn that life wasn't fair and he didn't perform for food. He performed for _Sylar_.

"Get up, pet."

Peter stood up with a sigh and a wince, dragging himself up. Sylar left the saucer where it was, enjoying Peter's repeated looks at it as he went where Sylar pointed, preceding him out of the bathroom after gingerly removing the washcloth. It looked like the bleeding had stopped, but Sylar made him walk ahead just to be sure. On the other side of the bed was a shallow plastic floor mat with raised edges, six feet by nine.

"Sit." Sylar walked over to the nightstand where he had what amounted to a leash laid out. He locked it around Peter's neck, eliciting no more than a frown. Peter had seen one of these, so he was unsurprised when Sylar plugged the other end into the wall socket and Peter's muscles all twitched at once. If he unplugged the leash or unfastened it at his throat without simultaneously toggling the lowest level shock on the remote, his implant would automatically switch over to subdual mode and jolt him with level 7 pain every time he tried to move his voluntary muscles.

Sylar smiled at him, enjoying the vision of having Peter Petrelli chained to his wall. While it would have been nice to see him raging or sobbing brokenly, it wasn't unpleasant to see him merely looking resigned as he did. Sylar went off to the bathroom and then the kitchen, coming back shortly with two saucers. Peter looked hopeful. Sylar knelt and set them both at the edge of the rubber mat. One held the piece of bread he'd never got around to touching and half of the cheese. The other held about half a slice of bread, the piece he'd already pinched parts off of, and the other half of the cheese.

Sylar pointed at the used saucer. "This one, you can have. This one though, my pet," he pointed at the untouched portion, "you can not have. I forbid it." He pushed them both forward into Peter's easy reach. He grinned. Peter didn't bother looking at the food. He just looked up at Sylar and for all the world he looked _disappointed_. Not disappointed in his choices, but disappointed in Sylar for giving him those particular choices, like Sylar had let him down somehow.

After a very, very long pause, Peter reached out for the used plate and picked it up. He began to eat the food there slowly, very slowly, looking up at Sylar with an expression of intense dissatisfaction. Sylar's impatience got the better of him and he walked off to get dressed again. Peter was creeping him out a little bit. He needed to go out tonight and find out what the President's men had found out and make sure he'd covered his trail well enough.

He was just finishing buttoning his shirt when he heard a crash and the shattering of china. He strode out of the bathroom quickly and was very nearly hit in the head by a flying saucer. It grazed his ear as he jerked his head aside. Peter snarled at him, out of things to throw.

Sylar growled in return, but he was happy inside. He grabbed up the remote and flipped it to 8. He took a moment to show Peter the setting. He paled and cringed, but he didn't beg or plead. He didn't even look sorry. He was just angry and defiant and beautiful without saying a word. Sylar smiled and pressed the button slowly, watching him writhe. He convulsed enough to jerk out the leash from the wall, but that didn't matter. It just meant that Sylar could take his finger off the button and watch while Peter repeatedly and inadvertently set off the device on his own while trying to merely sit up.

He was a stubborn one, Sylar would give him that. He hurt himself longer trying to regain some sort of dignity than Sylar had hurt him to start with. The pain only stopped when he lay there limply and did nothing. Sylar showed him the remote and tossed it on the bed. He walked forward and plugged the leash in. That didn't turn the device off once it was triggered. That required the remote. Sylar put his shoes and socks on while watching Peter lie there so submissively, beaten and defeated by his own rebellion.

He was standing up and working his feet into his shoes when he noticed something. Over against the wall, where the first dish had shattered, were the remnants of one untouched slice of bread and one uneaten piece of cheese. For some reason it robbed all the joy Sylar had felt out of hurting him. Or at least most of it. He looked back. Peter had followed him with his eyes, which was a small enough motion not to set off the implant. He'd obeyed him. He hadn't eaten that which he'd been told not to. He'd been angry about it and if anyone could understand temper, Sylar could. But he hadn't transgressed.

Sylar sighed and walked over to him. He squatted down and stroked Peter's cheek. The dark-haired man shivered involuntarily. Sylar brushed the hair at his temple and then petted his head, stroking it absently. It felt nice. He felt bad about hurting him. Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. Hadn't he been thinking something earlier about teaching Peter things weren't fair? He walked to the bed and toggled the remote to deactivate the implant.

"I'm going out for the evening, pet. Don't get yourself in trouble or else you'll die."

Sylar left, trying not to feel that Peter's eyes were boring into the back of his head accusingly. Because really, what did he expect?

**A/N: I needum reviews.**


	4. Reparations

Sylar came in late. It was not quite so late it was light out, but it was getting there. He crawled into bed and fell asleep, checking only to see that Peter's form was still lying on the mat where he was supposed to be. When he woke, he supposed it was afternoon. He pulled his thoughts together and remembered he had Peter Petrelli chained to his wall for use as a sex slave. What a thought! He rolled over, grinning at his luck. He looked at Peter. The grin receded, then faded entirely.

Peter had puked at some point. His ass had begun bleeding again and apparently not stopped for some time. He was pale and sweating and shivering slightly. His eyes were open but slightly glazed.

Sylar flopped back on the bed and rubbed his face wearily. That was _so_ not a turn on. He rubbed at himself, but his erection was fading and now that he knew Peter was over in the corner dying or something, it was unlikely he'd be able to rub one out. Besides, he could smell the vomit now that he was awake. He huffed and got out of bed. He shape shifted out of pajamas and into his day clothes. Peter didn't seem to notice.

Sylar crouched next to him. He was fevered. Touching his brow got a reaction. Peter's vision cleared and he looked up at Sylar. "If I didn't know better," Sylar grumbled, "I'd think you did this on purpose. This is not what I wanted." He started to get up, but Peter grabbed his arm at the elbow. His grip was strong, but trembling.

Sylar looked at him coolly. Peter brought his brows together and did his level best to look pitiful, which was pretty easy in his current condition, and begged, "Master, please."

The plea ran through Sylar like someone had jolted _him_ with an implant. It wasn't pleasant. He pushed Peter's hand off his arm and rose, getting away from him. "Shit," he muttered. He felt… almost like he had an obligation or… a responsibility. "Shit," he said again and stalked off to set things up.

He ended up using telekinesis to get Peter into the kitchen and lay on a plastic sheet, because any motion of his legs made him bleed more. Then he went back and cleaned up the vomit so he could get his bedroom aired out. He cleaned up the blood too. There was rather a lot of it, he realized as he scrubbed.

He went back in the kitchen, cleaned himself and poured Peter a full glass of orange juice. He handed it to him and went to scroll though the city database for doctors who would treat companion slaves _and_ do house calls. It wasn't a long list. He saved them all to his phone. He had a new task for the afternoon now, which wasn't what he'd been planning to do. Irritated, he turned to say something cutting to Peter, only to see him sitting there exactly where he'd put him, still holding the full glass and looking slightly dazed.

Sylar took a deep breath. He let it out. "Drink the juice, Peter." He twitched, realizing he'd given Peter the respect of calling him by his name. But the words were out of his mouth already. He couldn't recall them. He slumped a little. It didn't matter. "Stay there. Don't move. I'll be back with a doctor. You probably just need… antibiotics or something."

Sylar started to leave. Peter straightened a little and said, "Master?"

He stopped and looked at him, debating doing something about this habit Peter seemed to be getting into of talking out of turn. Instead he snapped, "What?"

"Can I have a pillow? If I'm to stay here on the tile... sir? Please?"

He looked at the tile. It was much colder to lie on than the rubber mat that was designed for the purpose and at least didn't cool a body more than necessary. He shook his head, but stalked into the bedroom and brought out a pillow and the top blanket off his bed. It was a fluffy comforter, parts of it still warm from his own body heat. He threw them both over where Peter could get to them and left before his passive aggressive slave could trick him into some other display of beneficence.

He was back in a few hours and during that time Peter had apparently not strayed. He'd finished the juice and kept it down. He was wrapped up in the comforter, on the floor. "There," Sylar directed, as if the doctor he'd brought couldn't see Peter perfectly well.

He was checked over – temperature, heart rate, lung function and blood pressure. The doctor jumped a little to see that he was naked under the blanket. He glanced back at Sylar, who was leaning against the far counter watching impassively. "You said he was a companion slave?"

"He _is_ a companion slave. Just bought. Yesterday."

"Was he like this when you got him? You should file a complaint." Sylar shook his head silently. The doctor turned to Peter. "My name is Mark. I'm told you're having some rectal bleeding. I'll need to get you up where I can examine you."

Peter smiled, a faint but sincere curving of his lips and said, "My name's Asshole. Because I am one."

Sylar coughed suddenly and covered his mouth with his hand. Mark did a double-take to make sure Peter was joking. Peter smiled wider and laughed just a little, enough to cement it. Dr. Mark, who had been tense, relaxed. He glanced back at Sylar. "I can see why you don't want to take him back."

"His name's Peter," Sylar offered, noticing that with one joke, Peter had defused the tension in the room completely. Sylar had heard Peter's charisma was legendary, but he'd always assumed that was overblown reputation. "Is the kitchen counter okay?"

Mark looked at the expansive bar and said, "Sure. Let me just double up the blanket so he's not lying on the granite." He arranged the spot and Sylar lifted Peter into position with telekinesis. The doctor's eyes went wide at the display of ability. Specials were very rare and very, very illegal. He could lose his freedom just for knowing one existed and not turning him in at the first opportunity. He looked at Sylar, whose eyes bored into his challengingly. Mark turned and looked at Peter, swallowing. Peter just gazed serenely past him. Sylar wasn't doing anything unusual. Peter had no real reference point for the law.

Sylar said, "Treat him and you'll live, but I don't guarantee you'll remember doing it."

Mark nodded numbly. He got out his equipment. A few minutes later, despite the death threat, he was quietly shaking with fury and hustled Sylar into the dining room next door.

"What did you _do_ to him? That's no _fissure!_" he said in a forced whisper that Peter heard easily in the silent house. "Do you even know _how_ to have sex? What is that huge bruise over his kidney? Do you realize that could have _killed_ him? It still could, if there's a clot that breaks free!"

Sylar listened to the doctor rant while wearing an indulgent expression. After he'd listened to enough of it, he held up one finger and Mark fell silent. "Treat him… and you'll live." Sylar shook his head. "You're not treating him right now."

Mark paled and breathed heavily out his nose. He walked back to Peter. "Peter, I'm going to give you some Tylenol to bring your temperature down and inject a sedative to make you more comfortable. Then I'm going to apply a local anesthetic and stitch you up. It's very important that you don't tear this open. You've been ripped, top and bottom, _by someone who didn't care how bad they hurt you_." He ground his jaw for a moment.

"He cared," Peter said placidly. "He wanted to hurt me. He told me he was going to."

Mark opened his mouth and shut it.

Leaning against the doorframe, Sylar said, "I'm nothing if not a man of my word." He looked pointedly between the doctor and Peter.

Mark swallowed and went back to his patient. He injected him and had him take two types of pills, then told him, "I'm going to give your owner the rest of the antibiotics for you. He should give them to you three times a day for ten days. Remind him if he doesn't. I know what you were sold as. If you have to have sex, use your mouth or your hands for the next six weeks."

"Six _weeks?_" Sylar interjected.

Mark glared at him. "Yes. _Six_ weeks, starting from the last time he bleeds more than spotting. If anything happens to him that causes him to bleed more than that, _restart_ the six weeks, _restart_ the antibiotics. You wanted me to treat him. This is the treatment he requires." He squared off towards Sylar. "Unless you're going to be _done_ with him faster than that?"

Sylar exhaled slowly and looked away and up, like a spoiled child. "No." He had no intention of being "done" with Peter so quickly. He'd expected to get more mileage out of him early on though. Perhaps if he just accelerated his plans to do something about Peter's ability suppression… It would take no more than a minute of regeneration to fix this.

Mark continued, "Try to avoid running or doing anything very physical with your legs. Don't stretch. You need to be on a liquid diet for the next week, until these scab over real good. After that the BRAT diet for two weeks."

"The what?" Sylar asked.

Peter volunteered, "Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, Toast."

Sylar blinked at that, thinking about Peter's background in the medical profession. He muttered, "I didn't know they had a diet named after you." Peter flashed him a radiant smile that lasted only a moment, but gave Sylar a strange feeling of warmth.

Mark nodded and smiled too, calmed again by the humor. "Exactly. BRAT diet for two more weeks. Then you can eat what you want, but it needs to be high fiber." He looked Peter over and then at Sylar. "He's looking a little thin right now and dehydrated. I see that a lot with slaves fresh out of the market because they don't want to feed them or clean the latrines too often for them. Get some food into him: broth, thin soup, juices, some puree if you don't overdo it."

Sylar rolled his eyes. He really didn't want to know all the gross details of Peter's treatment. He got them anyway, including a lesson on how to clean the stitches and check for infection and various other bits he'd rather not have known. He felt greatly put-upon, but he listened. Peter remained silent for the most part, obviously drowsy after the injection.

Mark was eventually ushered off with no more than a few commands to enforce his silence. Sylar had decided that if any of the wide range of gross complications arose, he'd be better off finding a doctor who had some history with the case rather than starting from scratch. He walked back from seeing him off and went into the kitchen, to find Peter still lying on his stomach on the counter top, naked, his arms folded under his head. His color had improved already; the fever had broken.

Giving in to a sudden, inexplicable urge, Sylar walked over and stroked his hair, kissed his shoulder and then bit him. "I haven't broken you yet, have I, pet?"

Peter turned his head to look back at him and said, "Did you want to?"

Sylar put one finger to him and zapped him lightly with his own ability to generate electricity. It left a scorch mark like he'd burned him with a cigarette, which was why he'd preferred to use the remote to inflict pain. Peter clenched his teeth, jaw working, and said nothing. Sylar reminded him, "Sir, or master."

"Yes or no. I get it." Peter turned back and put his head down, sulking and being deliberately provocative.

Sylar reached out his hand to really let him have it… then stopped. Peter was manipulating him. He wasn't sure to what end, but Sylar did not like being manipulated. He put his hand down, looked heavenward and shook his head. He went over and started making some chicken soup.

By the time he was done heating up the soup, he'd decided he had to do something about the insubordination. It was a pattern he couldn't let get started. Starting at Peter's feet, he ran his hand up his body, lingering at the crack of his ass. It was a little swollen from being doctored. He ran his fingers back and forth over it, probing slightly. "You really can't feel this?"

The local anesthetic was still in effect. So was the sedative. Peter looked back at him sleepily. "No, master."

That was annoying - no opening to mistreat him. Now that Sylar wanted to find an excuse to punish him, he was on good behavior. He manipulated his ass harder and apparently Peter could at least feel the pressure, because he leaned up on his elbows and seemed to wake up. "Please master," he said cautiously, looking back unsure. "Don't."

That was enough. Sylar stepped forward and grabbed him by the hair again, yanking his head back. "Why do you persist in being insubordinate, pet?"

Anger brimmed behind Peter's eyes and his face was a mask. "Why do you persist in treating me like a child's toy with a string to pull for 'yes, master,' 'no, master'?" I'm not a blow up doll you can just patch if you poke a hole in it. I'm a human being!"

Sylar jerked Peter off the countertop by his hair, managing to pull some of it out in the process and lose his grip. But Peter didn't run from him. He got his feet under him and stood tall, or as tall all he could next to someone who topped him by five inches. He didn't look intimidated by the height difference, his status, his nakedness, his injury or anything else. His lip curled on one side.

"You're not a human being," Sylar snarled at him. "You're my _slave_."

"_**I'm both**_," Peter said emphatically, hooked a hand behind Sylar's neck and crushed their lips together, working his mouth fast and bruisingly hard.


	5. Caught in the machinery

For a moment, Sylar just blinked in surprise, overwhelmed by contradictory desires. He wanted to push him away, knock him to the floor and make him suffer, watch him writhe and beg. And he also wanted… this kiss. By _Peter Petrelli_, his _slave_. Who _wanted_ to kiss him. Despite everything. Even if it was probably some sort of manipulative ploy. Was it really so bad what Peter was asserting? That he was human?

Well, Sylar might quibble with him on semantics on that, because Sylar didn't think either of them were something as pedestrian as merely human, but that wasn't the point. He moved his lips against Peter's while he considered what he wanted to do here. It felt really good. Peter was sneaking his arms around his hips, inside the waistband of his slacks, almost like Sylar wouldn't notice if he moved them furtively enough, if he distracted him with the darting pressure of his tongue at his master's lips, begging entry but not demanding it.

"Master," Peter moaned and that did it. Sylar forgot whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing here and forced his tongue into Peter's mouth, fucking it into him like he wanted to fuck his ass. He pressed him between himself and the countertop, bringing his hands up to hold Peter's head exactly where he wanted it. Peter made a small mewling sound of submission that brought out a completely involuntary hitch from Sylar's hips.

He jerked back, panting, realizing he not only wasn't in control of Peter, but he wasn't in control of his own body anymore. He wiped his mouth, looking at Peter's kiss-swollen lips and heavy-lidded eyes, more from passion than sedation, he was sure. Sylar shook his head. "No. No." He was in control here. He'd say when they had sex and when they didn't. What the hell was going on anyway, him letting Peter practically seduce him?

Sylar shook his head, trying to clear the fog from it. He pointed at the soup. "Eat that. Then go…" where? To him, to suck him off? _No!_ Sylar was in control of when they had sex, not… whatever. He couldn't think. His mind was too filled with regrets that he'd become so obsessed with hurting him that he'd made it impossible to get what he really wanted here. Even if… he was confused now as to what that was.

Visions of Peter tied on the bed, himself moving in him, stroking his sides… "Then… _go_… to your place in the bedroom." Sylar staggered out of the kitchen, trying to dredge up the horrific visions of anal gangrene Dr. Mark had threatened if he tried to have Peter again that way, too soon. It was probably a good thing that he didn't see Peter smirk at him as he went and then look down to check the device he'd palmed.

* * *

Later, when he went to bed, he dutifully brought Peter's nightly antibiotic and a glass of juice. His pet was exactly where he'd directed, but he had built a nest with the comforter and pillow he'd been provided earlier. Sylar hadn't given any orders against it, but it annoyed him to see Peter taking the liberty. He yanked the blanket out from under him and then snatched away the pillow too. Peter blinked away sleep and looked confused. Sylar threw the bedding in the corner.

"**That** is not _yours_. Not until I say it is. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master." His tone seethed with resentment.

Sylar dug through his pockets for the remote, intending to do something about that tone of voice, but it wasn't there. He was pretty sure he'd had it on him. Or had he tossed it on the bed and left it there? He couldn't remember. Peter was glaring up at him from his mat, watching his search. He didn't want to let on that he'd lost it somewhere. It didn't matter anyway. Peter was impotent and if he wasn't broken, he at least seemed well on the way to being trained. Sylar supposed he could deal with that.

Sylar stared at him for a long moment until Peter dropped his gaze, then he picked up the juice and pill from the nightstand and gave them to him. "Take these."

Peter opened his mouth to speak, to ask something, then shut it. Sylar grunted, pleased. Peter drank and did as directed. As Sylar was still standing there over him, he offered the glass back. He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, looking at Sylar's feet, and asked, "Master?"

It sounded appropriately submissive, so Sylar decided to allow the question. "Yes?"

"May I use the bathroom?"

He started to answer right away, but then pondered the enjoyment of watching Peter squirm over the next couple hours, with two glasses of juice and a pint of soup in his body, working itself inexorably downward. On the other hand, he really hadn't enjoyed cleaning up the vomit this morning and even if he made Peter clean up any mistakes - which he certainly would - there would still be the smell and his floor would be tainted. He had to walk across that floor, sometimes bare-footed. "Yes, you may."

Peter nodded. "Thank you, master." He was back to being solicitous. Sylar sighed and shook his head, not really understanding what was going on. But right now he was tired. He got out another blanket for his bed since Peter's blood was on the comforter, shifted himself into bed clothes and got in. A few moments later Peter pattered off to the bathroom, flushed, washed himself and came back to lie on the rubberized mat, naked and open to the air. Sylar acknowledged that it was probably pretty uncomfortable. On the other hand, the life of a slave wasn't supposed to be good.

* * *

Hours later, the bed dipped and the sheets lifted. Sylar woke immediately. A body slid into the bed with an attempt at stealth. A number of things ran through Sylar's mind, one tumbling after the next: he hadn't leashed Peter; he had knives in the kitchen; Peter didn't know Sylar could regenerate; he'd already demonstrated a willingness to do violence at the slave pens. He stiffened. He was fine with losing the sheets, but if Peter managed to wound him badly enough that his blood stained the mattress too then he would be seriously angry. Otherwise, he had every intention of lying there and letting Peter find out just how futile it was to try to hurt him.

After a long pause, Peter scooted towards him. Sylar waited, hyper-alert, for the knife to go in. Instead he felt Peter's fingers brush along his bicep, questing and exploring. _Okay, _Sylar thought, _not only is he bad at sneaking, but he's incompetent in how to kill someone in the dark_. The fingers brushed lower, across Sylar's side and then to his hip, pausing on the elastic waistband of his pajamas. Sylar blinked. _Is he intending to stab me in the ass or something idiotic like that?_

Then Peter confused him more by scooting a little closer and kissing him in the middle of the back. Sylar began to understand that he wasn't here to try to kill him. The fingers on his hip slid under the waistband and circled towards the front of Sylar's body. He inhaled sharply and Peter paused for a moment, then moved up closer behind him so his bare body was touching Sylar's clothed one. His skin felt very cool where they were touching.

_Maybe that's it,_ Sylar thought. _Maybe he just got cold and he'd just trying to buy his way into my bed_. It seemed unlikely though. Wasn't it? Was it possible he'd just wanted to make him happy? Peter's fingers brushed up and down his penis, discovering how it lay folded over and downward. It was slowly swelling. Sylar let himself breathe more deeply and relax, not asking, not questioning. Asking might give the wrong answer. Without knowing, he could more easily entertain the fantasy that Peter actually wanted to please him.

Peter spoke instead, but it wasn't disappointing. It was like he knew what Sylar wanted to hear. "You're my first," he whispered, pulling aside the pajama top to kiss his shoulder delicately, carefully. "This is special," he murmured and kissed him again a little stronger, his fingers wrapping around Sylar's shaft and beginning to tug slowly. He was in no hurry and somehow that made Sylar's body rush all the more. "I'm always going to remember this," Peter said, molding his body to Sylar's, spooning him. "My _master…_" he crooned and Sylar shivered all over. He kissed his shoulder again, dragging his teeth across the skin while Sylar groaned.

He was as good at a hand job as he was with his mouth, spitting copiously in his hand to lubricate him once Sylar was fully hard. It didn't take long. Sylar was sort of embarrassed by that, but he didn't see a reason to drag it out. He just went with it, thrilled to be approached and touched and to have the illusion that it had nothing to do with abilities and maybe even was happening in spite of how he'd treated Peter. It was almost like someone _wanted_ him. Almost.

When he was done, Peter withdrew as slowly as he'd approached, crawling back out of bed and unknowingly refuting the possibility that he'd just wanted to get warm. He was nearly gone before Sylar rolled over, acting on a spur of the moment thought and dragged him back. He pulled Peter against him, spooning him in turn now, and wrapped an arm possessively around his stomach to cinch them together. Peter lay quietly and said nothing. After a moment, he started breathing normally and relaxed. Sylar nuzzled his shoulder and murmured, "_Mine_," before going back to sleep.

* * *

Sylar woke to the sensation of hands gripping his forearm tightly. Peter was still in his arms and that was disorienting enough by itself. Sure, Sylar had been with plenty of people, but he'd only very rarely _slept_ with them. Sometimes he wanted to, but it was rarely _safe_. He jumped a little at Peter's grip, but Peter didn't notice. He was dreaming, or having a nightmare, making small noises and twitching. He held onto Sylar's arm for dear life.

Sylar wondered what was going on behind those closed lids. There was one way to find out and he'd been intending to take a look anyway. Dreams were uncontrollable and unpredictable, but they were also unguarded. He leaned his head forward, bumping his forehead to the back of Peter's head.

In the dream, Peter was flying… or falling. He clung to someone's arm as they spun crazily through the sky, between buildings in a burning city. He needed to hold on, to learn to fly. He knew he _could_ fly and at random moments he felt the lift, just like he'd felt in the elevator with Sylar, when he'd touched Sylar's arm and thought that maybe… maybe he was the one.

Sylar was fairly sure the person in the dream with Peter was Nathan, but Peter didn't know. The face was indistinct. He was white and male and Peter _knew_ him, _knew_ him intimately even if he had no recall of details. Sylar sucked in his breath as he realized. This was the one Peter had remembered, or thought he might have remembered… this person who had an overwhelming impact of Peter's life. Sylar's fingers had been stroking in and out of his ass so slowly and hypnotically, unintentionally duplicating Nathan's style, and the _feeling_ was familiar, but Peter was still clueless. It was someone important to him, very important… and maybe that person was Sylar, holding him now.

The dream ended in a sense of fading confusion and disappointment as Peter's mind returned to deeper sleep. Sylar pulled back before he was sucked into slumber himself. He wanted to think about this. He hadn't realized the president had fucked his brother. He wondered how early it had started. He was aware of the age gap.

He was familiar with the story that Nathan had taken the role of Peter's father, raising him when he was a child and then taking guardianship again after Arthur Petrelli had been murdered at Pinehearst by Nathan (of course, that wasn't the public story – the public story was a tragic accident that destroyed the whole building, leaving no survivors other than Nathan's personal goon squad of newly injected marines). The pretense was that Peter was depressive and emotionally unstable. He had been declared incompetent, which even Sylar had thought was ludicrous. He had clearly become Nathan's tool after that, until he escaped a few years ago to operate on his own, leading resistance cells against his brother's operations.

If Peter had been groomed and conditioned from youth… if he'd been programmed after Nathan got hold of him the second time… then it explained a great deal of Nathan's desperation in trying to find the young man. He hadn't cared while Peter was out leading bands of resisters, but the moment he found out Peter had been captured by the twisted machinery Nathan himself had set into motion against specials, he'd lost it. The president had had a melt down and the media was beginning to notice.

But it had already been too late. It made Sylar wonder if Peter hadn't been leading those resistance groups for real… if instead he'd been continuing to act at Nathan's behest, because the resistance had experienced quite a run of bad luck shortly after Peter had begun to lead them. Ostensibly this was because of another government crackdown, but it just seemed a bit suspicious. Any group where Peter was personally present had always fared well, until this last mission. Emile Danko, who had been leading the group that finally caught Peter, had already been publicly executed for some flimsy excuse.

That machinery was designed to work fast, so when a special was caught, they were rendered faceless and not worth saving quicker than a rescue operation might be mounted. By the time Nathan even knew, Peter had been wiped clean, sterilized, deliberately mixed with several thousand other slaves and lost in the system. It was an efficient system – a frighteningly efficient system. Now Nathan's only recourse was individual visual identification, tracking down every slave that had been sold in any of the related lots. Obviously, if Sylar simply kept Peter out of public sight, he'd never be found.

But that conditioning also explained why Peter reacted so well to being abused, how he was so comfortable with using sex to manipulate a more powerful man, why the power dynamic was acceptable to him on a deep level, even if he did not appreciate the brutality with which Sylar applied it.

He had an opportunity here, Sylar knew. Peter's mind still retained just enough of the patterns and the behaviors, but there was enough missing that he was open to having someone new in that role. A slow smile graced Sylar's face. He didn't fall asleep again, his mind was busy plotting. The game had changed. He didn't have to break Peter. He just had to mold him a little.


	6. What's in a Name?

Some time later, Sylar was watching as Peter very slowly peeked out of the bedroom, just one eye visible. It made him grin. "Come here."

Peter did, padding across the hall and into the kitchen, still naked. He walked a little stiffly. Sylar assumed the stitches were bothering him. "Closer," he said when Peter stopped about five feet away.

Peter walked up to him slowly, trying to read his face. Sylar was smiling, but Peter was still wary. He pulled Peter to him the last few steps and put his mouth on his, forcing his tongue into him and drawing him against him. He ravaged his mouth for as long as it pleased him, which was quite a while, and then released him. He could feel (and see) that Peter had responded to it. He smiled and turned to get down a glass.

He glanced back to see Peter smirking at him. The expression disappeared, but not so fast that he didn't catch it. Sylar filled the glass with water. "You think you own me, pet?" His voice was low and dangerous.

"No, sir," Peter answered immediately. "_You_ own _me_."

Sylar laughed once and handed him the glass and his pill. "You're a smart man, Peter Petre-" He caught himself and cleared his throat. Peter peered at him intently. "You're a smart man, Peter pet." He reached out and tousled his hair affectionately. Peter took his medicine and stood there looking at the half full glass, mouthing 'peter pet.' Or at least that was what Sylar hoped he was mouthing.

"Are you hungry?" he interrupted the introspection.

Peter's head jerked up immediately. "Yes, sir," he said readily.

"Well, we'll start with some orange juice and then maybe for the main course we can do some of this French onion soup. I think it's almost all broth." Sylar had the can out on the counter. He'd been looking at what he had. He really hadn't stocked the larder enough for a second mouth to feed, much less for one on a specialized diet. But he had enough to keep them for a while.

The day went well. He spent the morning getting Peter shaved and letting his pet groom him in turn. It was profoundly sensual without being sexual at all. Or… well… it wasn't sexual until he demanded fellatio in the middle of it, but Peter continued to seem eager and pleased to perform for him.

He rummaged through Peter's mind (not that there was much to find) and Peter spent the afternoon rummaging through Sylar's apartment after he'd left (Sylar certainly hoped he hadn't found anything useful). Sylar hadn't bothered to lock him up when he went out for the afternoon, which he reflected was almost certainly a mistake. But he couldn't find the damn remote and without it, he wouldn't be able to unlock the leash when he got back. He couldn't easily get a replacement because all implants were unique and he'd have to take Peter in for it to be programmed to him.

He was certain now that he'd misplaced the remote, probably having left it on the bed and Peter had snatched it later. He could have forced the location of the device out of Peter's head, now that he knew, but he didn't bother. Peter was being unusually cooperative, his tone light, his expression friendly, servicing him whenever he showed the slightest interest. Sylar assumed incorrectly that these elements went together, for if Peter had swiped the remote, then he would want to avoid having this fact discovered, as it would be as soon as he warranted punishment.

The berserk fury of Nathan's goons had quieted as they had, by now, exhausted all reasonable leads to finding Peter. Soon they would start with the unreasonable ones, like Molly Walker. Sylar hoped it would take a while to find her. Nathan's operations had driven those with even the most innocuous abilities underground. It had been over a year since Sylar had gained a new ability because it was just that difficult to find specials these days. Those that showed up on the slave market were altered so as to quell their abilities permanently, an alteration that also made them useless to Sylar.

Unless, of course, they'd had regeneration before. In that rare case, Sylar could just remove the inhibitor and wait for nature to take its course. That was his intention with Peter. That and thoroughly owning him first in every way he could think of. He'd given up on the idea of breaking him. He supposed it was possible, but it just seemed unnecessary and Sylar simply did not have the patience to work at it. He stroked Peter's hair as they lay in bed that night, satisfied and pleased with himself, Peter curled at his side, his head resting on Sylar's chest. Tomorrow he'd look at the implant.

* * *

"Petrelli," Peter said, still looking off into the distance. Sylar was held against the bedroom wall with telekinesis, flattened and unable to move. "That's what you almost said yesterday." Peter looked down at the floor mat below Sylar, then walked over and picked up the leash. Sweat broke out on Sylar's brow. He had no idea which of the dozen terrifying things going on at the moment caused it. He wasn't generally a fearful person, but things had happened so _fast_.

Peter stood next to the bed. He was still naked and seemed content that way, though his state of undress was disconcerting to Sylar at least now that Peter had the upper hand. It seemed wrong for someone so in charge to be nude. "You know, they say it takes four weeks for people to develop a new habit or get invested in a new way of life. You only waited a couple of days…" He shrugged and tossed the leash back on the nightstand. Sylar said nothing, because he couldn't. Peter wasn't letting him move a muscle, not even to speak. There were a few things he could do, for he had a wide range of powers, but there was nothing he had that Peter didn't.

"You're so impatient." Peter's voice was soft. He had wanted that one piece of information and he'd gotten it, tugged it out of Sylar's mind like pulling a piece of gum off of a desk. Then he'd simply stood there for a few moments, introspective. "Do you think… maybe… you could work on being a little more patient?"

Sylar felt the force holding them lighten except for his legs and hands. He could speak now. He swallowed. He could command Peter with his voice. That didn't really seem wise though, under the circumstances. "Yes. I could. I-I will. I will, Peter."

"Really?" He looked at Sylar hopefully, earnestly, like he wanted that to be true.

And it was, as far as Sylar was able. After Peter stuck him to the wall like hanging a painting, Sylar had immediately resolved never to let his enthusiasm for an idea push him into rushing things like it had here. Assuming he survived. Yes, he was hard to kill, but Peter… he was sure Peter had a way to kill him. Several of his own powers would do – it was why he'd gained them: to get rid of people who could kill someone like him. Sylar nodded. "Yes. I'm working on it right now." He wanted down, and out of here, but he was trying to be patient and wait it out. Not that he had much choice in the matter.

"I think you're telling the truth." Peter looked down for a moment, then back up. "Were you telling the truth about that 'ruling the world' stuff?"

Sylar had no idea what the right answer was for that. Did Peter find the idea abhorrent or attractive? He didn't know.

Was there even a point to lying? Sylar was not a man to live on his knees. He'd been a bit thrown by what had happened, but now he was getting his thoughts back in order.

It had seemed like such a simple, straight-forward operation. Removing the implant would restart Peter's basic ability, but that ability would start empty, since he needed an empathic connection with his target to make it work instantly, and he couldn't remember any of his "donors." The regeneration would be the first to upload automatically and it would take a while for each new ability to replicate after that. It had seemed like Sylar would have plenty of time. His plan had been to let Peter heal himself and then reinsert the implant before things got out of hand. What he'd failed to consider was that Peter had an empathic connection to _him_.

And since he hadn't been able to put the implant back in (being chased around his apartment had never been part of the plan), Peter was _still_ uploading his old powers, even as they spoke.

"Yes," Sylar said. "That was the truth. That was my plan: you and me, ruling this sorry excuse for a world." He laughed a little. It sounded kind of ridiculous now that he wasn't dictating it to an inferior. The power dynamics between them changed many things.

"Is that really the plan?" Peter's eyes were intent. His expression was rapidly fading from curious and earnest to determined and incisive.

Sylar knew why that would be. "Yes." He gritted his teeth. If Peter had his abilities, then this was going to _hurt_. The only consolation was that he'd survive unless Peter went out of his way to prevent it.

Peter walked over to him, still naked and beautiful and utterly comfortable with it. His attention seemed entirely focused on Sylar's head. Sylar fidgeted. He'd never had this experience and he was sure it was ironic and fitting and karmic somehow, but he wasn't looking forward to it. The taller man hissed a sharp intake of breath and pulled back against the wall even further as Peter reached him.

Peter reached up and stroked Sylar's forehead, staring at it in fascination like it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Sylar looked uneasily around the room. "Look, Peter, just get it over with, okay? I know what's going on here. I know you can't stop it."

Peter's eyes dropped to his. "No." After a long pause, his eyes dropped to Sylar's lips. "No. It doesn't have to be that way for me. I have… options." Sylar slid down so his feet were against the floor.

Peter propped his arm against the wall next to Sylar's head and leaned in as if to kiss him. Sylar's expression contorted in confusion. He'd considered himself something of a sick puppy, but sex and the Hunger never mixed. "I need to know," Peter crooned, seeing his reticence. "I need to understand. You get that, don't you? The _need_ to understand?"

Sylar swallowed and nodded. "Yes. I do. But…" Peter had had enough of talking. Instead, he brushed Sylar's lips with his own, his eyes distant, almost glazed over. It tingled. Random flashes of the last few days passed through Sylar's brain, along with glimpses of the further past. The emotions rose to the surface and he jerked his head to the side, denying Peter. "What are you doing?" he whispered hoarsely.

Peter went on kissing him, only on the neck where Sylar couldn't as easily avoid his questing lips. At least these touches didn't seem to arouse memories of moments past. Between kisses, he said, "I'm using an ability. … I got this one from a nice lady named Lydia. … It won't hurt you. … I need to see this. I need to understand where things really are between us." He brought his other hand up to Sylar's face and rubbed it slowly down his jaw, caressing him. "I need to _understand _and if you won't let me learn what I need this way, then I'll have to use another."

Peter pressed his body against Sylar's, evoking a reaction. Sylar panted and looked at the ceiling. _Okay, make out with freaky-psycho-Peter, or get head cut open by freaky-psycho-Peter. Put that way…_

Sylar exhaled a deep breath and turned his head back. It occurred to him Peter could have just forced his compliance, but instead he'd asked. Peter's lips progressed along his jaw, nibbling and lipping and it felt so good. When Peter moved up to the corner of his mouth, it was all Sylar could do not to hurry things along by turning his head further so Peter was directly over his lips. But he waited and let Peter make that final move. The darker-haired young man's eyes flitted between Sylar's and a ghost of a smirk crossed his features. Then he kissed him again, open-mouthed and tantalizingly slow. Sylar felt his body rise in response and it was oh, oh so good.

After too short an eternity, Peter pulled back. He sighed and switched to propping himself against the wall with his elbow. He licked his lips and looked speculative, like Sylar's life was a new flavor of candy and he was deciding if he liked it.

Sylar felt like his whole life had flashed behind his eyes. He suspected he should be bothered that Peter probably now knew his deepest and darkest secrets, but he didn't give a fuck at the moment. There was only one thing that mattered, one thing that all the dominance games and the acquisition of abilities and the flaunting of power all boiled down to and that thing was a very human need to be respected and loved. For just a few short hours with Peter, he'd thought maybe he had that, or at least the illusion of it, which was enough. It was all he'd ever been chasing after anyway.

Peter reached up and rubbed his lips with his fingers, then over to Sylar's to do the same, smearing the saliva from their kiss. Sylar shut his eyes and quivered under that touch, clinging to the fantasy that there was still a chance that it wasn't over. "Funny," Peter said. "I've changed you more than you've changed me."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Sylar said huskily, wanting nothing more than to be free of the telekinesis and throw Peter on the bed. He didn't want to leave anymore. He didn't care about getting away. There was nothing out there for him now and he was sure of it.

"It means you _can_ change. You have the capacity for it. I needed to know that. I needed to understand it and by learning that, I see how you overcame the Hunger." Peter leaned in and nuzzled him under the ear. "So I can control it too." Peter kissed him again, a simple smack of the lips, but Sylar tried to make it more, tried to lean away from the wall to follow him. It wasn't allowed. He growled in frustration. Peter smiled and mocked him, "Ah ah. You're going to have to learn to be patient."

"I'm not feeling very patient right now," Sylar snapped. He jerked at the telekinetic restraints. Surely Peter's concentration would waver soon... he supposed his best time to break free had been during that kiss, but Sylar's mind had been elsewhere. He hadn't wanted loose until Peter stepped away from him. Now he was wild to be free. He pulled futilely against the power holding his hands and feet.

Peter gave a dry laugh. "I know." Sylar growled at him and pointedly looked away. Peter sighed and took a step back. Sylar felt the telekinesis release entirely. He flexed his hands uncertainly and looked at Peter, who asked, "Can you play nice?"

Sylar looked him up and down. "Yes." Sylar's eyes narrowed at him. "Can _you?_" He wasn't sure where this was going. Had their positions been reversed, he certainly wouldn't be letting himself go.

Peter took the step closer that put them against each other again. Sylar felt himself burn with need and fear and anger and uncertainty at the change in their relationship. Was he the slave now? Was Peter toying with him? He stood his ground and drew himself up. Peter hooked his hand around Sylar's neck and tugged, encouraging him to dip his head to him without requiring it. After a moment, Sylar complied and they shared a brief and cautious kiss. When they parted, Peter said, "Yes. I can play nice. I _like_ playing nice." He ran his hand down Sylar's arm and let his fingers brush those of the other man before walking back to the bed and sitting on it.

Sylar stood there and processed that Peter, even with his freedom and his powers, was still interested in him. "You… What did you have in mind?"

Peter gave a sad smile and said, "I've played king-maker before..."

Sylar's eyes widened. "You have your memories back."

Peter smirked at him. "Little trick Adam Monroe taught me. All I needed was my full name. Don't worry though. It doesn't really change anything. At least, not to your detriment." Sylar blinked. How could having his memories back possibly be to Sylar's _benefit_? Peter looked up at him. "Nathan's made a mess of everything. He has to be stopped. Things like this," he picked up the slave leash, "Can't be allowed to happen. Everything you did to _me_, Nathan facilitated. You only did it _to me_. He's set things up so it happens to hundreds of thousands of people. Who's the bigger villain: you or him?"

Sylar stared. Could Peter seriously be saying that Sylar was morally superior to Nathan Petrelli, his brother? _His brother who molested him,_ Sylar pointed out to himself. _His brother who used him. His brother who had him drugged and reprogrammed. His brother who was hunting for him even now and probably not to save him._ Sylar hadn't really put much thought into why Nathan wanted Peter. He'd assumed brotherly love and all that crap, but now that he thought about it…

He walked over to Peter, who looked up at him placidly. Sylar put his hand on his shoulder first, testing the waters. When that was allowed, he ran it behind Peter's head, tilted it and kissed him more passionately, less cautiously. When they parted, Sylar asked, "You and me… ruling the world?"

Peter smiled and said with mock-seriousness, "Anything you say, _master_."

* * *

**A/N: For those who have enjoyed this story, let me know in the reviews. I have a couple "extra bits" written out (the shaving scene alluded to above and a snuggly scene that immediately precedes where Sylar and Peter are lying in bed in this chapter). I'll post them after this, though technically this is the last chapter of Slave Verse. I have a sequel in the works, with a working title of "Stop the President, Stop the World."**


	7. Shaving the Day

**A/N: This would be the shaving scene mentioned in chapter 6. There's another scene from chapter 6 I'll post tomorrow.**

Sylar dabbed on the shaving cream in a thick layer on Peter's face. His pet had become a bit scruffy. Sylar didn't care for "scruffy." He set the bowl aside and picked up the blade. He'd become something of a fan of old style bladed shaving, especially since he could regenerate any nicks. It had taken him a while to get the hang of it, but once he did, there was no closer shave. Now he glorified in having Peter's neck under a knife, knowing that Peter was mortal and human and couldn't heal if he slipped. It was a very sharp blade.

He started a little tentatively. Peter's head was leaned back, his eyes steady on Sylar's face. His expression was one of total trust and faith. Sylar had never shaved another man's face. He'd never even thought of trying it, but when he'd presented the tools to Peter for him to use on himself, Peter had looked apprehensive and questioning. He had no experience with it. And so, fearing his slave might inadvertently put an end to himself, Sylar had volunteered to groom him. Though he had to admit there was a certain ridiculousness in the idea that Peter Petrelli might die in a self-inflicted shaving accident.

He slid up the blade in a smooth stroke from Peter's neck to his jawline. Peter remained utterly relaxed. Sylar wiped off the blade and made another clean sweep. On the third, he was over his windpipe. Perhaps he had the wrong angle. Peter's eyes twitched, but no other part of him did. Sylar pulled back. There was a spot of blood. He wiped the blade. Peter's expression had not change a whit. Sylar swallowed and tried again, taking the different topography into account more. He finished out the neck without another nick.

He leaned down and tongued that mark on impulse. Peter made a soft sigh and shifted a little like it aroused him. Encouraged, Sylar bit his neck lightly and kissed the smooth, shaving-cream-flavored skin. _If I don't watch it, _he thought, _I'm going to end up servicing __**him**__._ He stood up. Peter had a beatific smile on his face that made Sylar wonder if doing that would be such a bad thing after all. He shook the thought away and bent to work on Peter's face, standing directly in front of him, straddling Peter's knees.

It was weird to work directly over another person and have them watch you so raptly. Sylar understood, distantly, why dentists and hairstylists always tried to talk to their clients while working on them. There was a basic human urge to communicate, to share, and to be intimate when this close to one another. The expression on Peter's face was totally devoted. That certainly didn't hurt anything.

Sylar nicked him again and again Peter had no reaction to it other than an awareness that it had happened. There was no blame, no reticence. It was hard to handle that anyone would look at him this way after what he'd done to Peter over the last couple of days. He wasn't quite finished, but he couldn't stop himself from leaning in and kissing those pinked lips once they were cleared of shaving cream and baby-smooth all around them. He kissed him gently and tenderly and this time Peter definitely reacted physically. He moaned softly into Sylar's mouth and brought up his hand to stroke along Sylar's pants at the hip, curling his hand slightly to grip his buttock.

The kiss was long, slow and unhurried. Sylar was hard at the end of it. A glance down confirmed he wasn't alone in that condition. He straightened and turned away a little, understanding that this must be what people felt that made them declare their love to others. It was a silly feeling. But oh, how he wanted to kiss him again like that. As if he could read his mind, Peter languidly stroked his ass, cupping the nearer butt cheek, still looking up at him worshipfully.

Sylar looked down at him and groaned in lust and other, less familiar emotions. He opened his slacks hurriedly. Maybe if he just got off again, he'd feel normal and the knot that was in his stomach would ease. He jerked down his underwear as Peter swallowed several times, obviously working up saliva, and shifted forward in his seat. _He's so accommodating, _Sylar thought. _I haven't even asked him._

And he didn't ask him. He just pulled himself out and looked at Peter, who took Sylar's hips in his hands and went to his knees before him. He looked up. Whatever he saw wasn't denial and so he began sucking at the tip of Sylar's penis like it was the end of a popsicle. He pulled back, a thin loop of precum dangling between them. Peter looked up at him and worked his tongue out, lapping it up and making a show of pulling it into his mouth.

Sylar groaned again in inarticulate pleasure. Peter moved in, swirling his tongue around the head, exploring every groove and cleft. He stretched his neck a little and took Sylar's full length in a single, graceful bob. _Good God,_ Sylar thought. _I never imagined anyone could make giving head look pretty. Where the fuck did he learn to do this? Sucking Nathan's cock? Christ._

He pulled off a few seconds later, sucking hard all the way back, his tongue working the underside of the shaft with quick jerks. Sylar's thighs tensed and his eyes watered. Whatever it was Peter was doing made him feel he might come from that alone. "Oh CHRIST!" he shouted, his fingers scrabbling across Peter's head. One hand dug in and the other was against the side of his face as he started fucking Peter's face enthusiastically.

Peter shifted and moved, changing position so he was crouched and a little to the side instead of directly in front. He didn't move his head though, except to angle it. Sylar could feel himself going all the way in with every thrust. He could feel Peter gagging on him and see the muscles bunch and jump on his naked back each time. It didn't matter. Peter was gamely hanging in there and Sylar was coming already, so hard that he staggered and had to catch himself on the chair, knocking Peter on his rear end in the process.

Peter took time for a single breath and was back at him, gentle and careful, sucking at the end his member with a steady suction that felt like it was pulling the marrow right out of his bones. "Oh, Peter… Peter… Peter…" Sylar sounded like he was begging and…well… he was. He reached down and feebly pushed his slave away. He slumped and more or less fell into the chair, tugging up his pants. "Oh my God. Oh my-" Sylar shut his mouth. He was making a fool of himself. It was just a blow job, after all. But oh God, the blow jobs Peter could give…

Peter came forward, folded his hands neatly over Sylar's knee and rested his chin on them, looking up at him so sweetly that it was hard to stay embarrassed. No, it was impossible. Sylar felt tears come to his eyes again as he reached out and petted Peter's hair and stroked the side of his face. Peter rose suddenly and shuffled forward on his knees next to Sylar, putting himself between his arm and body. He put his forehead down on Sylar's chest. It was like he was bowing to him. Sylar hooked his arm around him and tilted his head back. Peter kept his down and in the absence of his gaze, Sylar felt a single tear escape his eye and fall down his cheek.

_Okay. Getting off did __**not**__ stop the weird feelings. _If anything, they were worse. After a minute, he lifted the towel from his shoulder and wiped his eyes. Peter had still not moved. He pushed him away a little and called the blade to his hand. Peter looked from it to Sylar, who caught his chin and turned it. He finished shaving Peter's face, doing a sloppy job of the sideburns and nicking him twice more, but Peter didn't complain. When his face was clean, he hugged Sylar in wordless thanks and backed off.

Sylar swallowed and stood up, leaving Peter on his knees on the floor. He washed his face and the blade, then turned to Peter and set the towel on his slave's shoulder. Peter looked alarmed at that. "Now you, pet." Sylar presented him with the razor.

"You… Sir?" Peter squeaked.

Sylar took up the shaving cream and worked up lather. He dabbed it on himself. Then he sat down, rolled his shoulders a little to relax them, and leaned back, shutting his eyes. After most of a minute passed in silence, Sylar cracked an eye and smiled. "Relax, pet. Do your best. I won't hurt you if you slip." He reached out and touched Peter's arm. "I trust you."

Of course, it helped that he could heal quickly, but with a blade that sharp, a strong, skilled and determined man could cut his throat and probably even detach his head faster than regeneration could put him back together. Peter could, theoretically, kill him. Of course, since he didn't know about regeneration, he'd probably cut his throat and stop there. Probably.

Peter got to his feet and stepped closer, but said, "Master… I shouldn't do this. I might hurt you."

Sylar shut his eyes. "Peter, your hands have saved hundreds of lives and taken few. It wouldn't matter if you sliced my jugular. I'm not going to hold it against you. You have my word. I know this is your first time." He opened his eyes and met Peter's. "It doesn't matter how hard your hands are shaking – I'm going to make you do this. So please. For my sake – take a deep breath, relax, and do your best."

Peter did. He cut him no less than eight times and Sylar refrained from healing because he wanted to make a point. Peter had tears in his eyes too by the end, but it wasn't due to love, per se. He seemed wracked that he'd hurt him and perhaps terrified of what would happen next. Sylar toweled off his face vigorously after Peter's tentative, fearful dabbing was doing more harm than good. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. Peter cringed behind him. Sylar looked back at that. Peter was genuinely upset. Five thin trails of blood crept down Sylar's face. A couple more flowed from his neck.

He turned to Peter, who was clearly on the verge of falling to his knees and begging forgiveness. While it would have been amusing to let him, Sylar… didn't want to see that. It seemed inappropriate somehow. Or at least unnecessary. He'd let the joke go on long enough now.

"Come here, Peter. Look at me. You know I can lift things with my mind?" Peter just stared at him, watching the blood creep further down his face and curl under his jaw. "Peter?"

"Yes sir?"

"Watch." The cuts healed. Peter blinked. It didn't take away the blood already on his skin, but the source was gone and they stopped flowing. Peter reached out and touched Sylar's face, rubbing his thumb over one of the spots. A small, hopeful smile played across his lips.

"I've seen that before," Peter said wonderingly. "Somewhere."

"Yes, you have." Sylar kissed him, a brief, loving kiss, before saying, "You didn't hurt me. You _can't_ hurt me. I'm fine."

Peter smiled more broadly and relaxed in relief. "Oh… master." He bowed his head to him again and pressed it to Sylar's chest.

Sylar put his arms around him indulgently. "You are a good slave," he murmured to him. "A good man. My trust was not misplaced." He turned Peter's face up and kissed the side of it, then gave him a light, playful slap. "Now, go brush your teeth. I've laid things out for you over there."


	8. Bruises

**A/N: This would also be part of chapter 6.**

They watched the sunset from the balcony. The pollution made it sensational, but it was the company that really sold it. Peter was snuggled up to him like he was trying to climb on top of him, which, given the fact he was naked and the air was a bit chill, was probably the case. When the sun had been up, Peter hadn't seemed to mind. He'd been close, but that was it. Now that its warming rays were gone, he pressed to his master in a wordless plea for warmth. He hadn't quite started shivering yet, but that was clearly coming. His skin was bumpy with gooseflesh.

Sylar finished off his wine. "Come on. Inside. Before you freeze to death."

Peter fairly leapt to his feet, winced as that was apparently not wise in his current state, and then hurried inside anyway. Sylar took one last look at the city that sprawled around them and followed. He stretched in the kitchen and put his glass next to the sink. Peter watched him attentively. Sylar smiled at that. He really was the most important thing in Peter's world right now.

"Let's go to bed." He went in the bedroom and shape shifted into night clothes. Peter went over to his mat and started to carefully lower himself, putting his hand on the wall for support. "Wait," Sylar ordered, walking over to look at him.

Peter paused exactly where he was until Sylar added, "Stand up. Turn around slowly." He leaned on the bed post and examined his property with a critical eye. Peter stood and pivoted, arms held slightly out from himself. His body was littered with bruises: his heels, his knees, his hips, hands, wrists, elbows and shoulders. He had one on his thigh from where Sylar had kicked him and a bigger one on his back where he'd been hit.

His face and neck had a few small nicks on them from shaving and he had a bruise at the point of one cheekbone and another above that on his brow. Most of them had been inflicted during convulsions from using the implant. This was only what Sylar could see easily. He probably also had muscle sprains and might have had fractures. He was still thin – perhaps not dehydrated anymore, but a liquid diet wasn't going to do anything to fatten him up.

Sylar reflected that it was probably for the best that he'd lost the remote. Peter surely would have had more marks on him if he'd still had that ready at hand. "Get in bed with me."

Peter nodded silently and climbed in. He snuggled up again and his hand fell artlessly on Sylar's hip, right above his waistband. Sylar caught that hand and moved it up six or eight inches, murmuring, "No, that's not what I want right now. I just want you here next to me." He moved his hand back to Peter's head and stroked him. Because he was paying attention, he noticed the bump on his head from where he'd cracked the tile. "Do you hurt, pet?"

Peter hesitated a moment and said, "Yes sir."

"Where?"

He hesitated another moment and said with an uncharacteristically tired voice, "Everywhere. Sir."

Sylar bent and kissed his head. He adjusted himself to pull Peter closer against him and resolved to do something about this sorry state of affairs the very next day.


End file.
